


A Twist of Fate

by SpyderScully



Category: Pre-The X-Files, The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 14:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5093717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpyderScully/pseuds/SpyderScully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reoccurring dream changes Scully's life...or is the dream the path she was meant to take all along?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Twist of Fate

She's dreaming again - it's the same dream she's had for almost six months, about once or twice for each of those months.

It always starts the same. An unfamiliar room, a man sitting before her, working diligently at his desk. She speaks to him and he turns, and despite his only thinly-veiled hostile demeanor, there is a warmth in his eyes that instantly draws her in. She has never seen him before, but she is comforted and intrigued by the depth in those eyes. She offers her hand to him and he grasps it firmly, and she can now take in the handsome features before her. She likes him, although she doesn't know why—she does not form attachments to people this easily.

She's vaguely confused when his hand vaporizes from her grasp, and when she looks up, the scene has changed. He's stepping towards her, his eyes wild with concern as a disembodied voice that she somehow recognizes as her own tries to reassure him. He looks unconvinced, but before she can respond further a blare of color bleeds before her eyes again. Like a slideshow montage, moments flash hazily through her subconscious—he stands near her as she looks intently at something she can't decipher. His hand presses into her lower back as he lets her cross before him up the stairs. She can smell his warm, familiar scent as she sits beside him in a nondescript waiting room. He glances at her and she recognizes that the hostility she sensed before has vanished into something very much the opposite. Once more her vision blurs, and she has no idea where she is. She's naked and wet and cold, but she can hear him pounding at the hard surface separating her from the outside world. She knows it's him. She can't see his face, but the surface shatters before her and although she cannot move or speak, the gratitude and relief flows through her freely when she knows he has found her.

She looks down and sees that his hands have grasped hers, their fingers linked in understanding and compassion. She feels a combination of sensations she's never known in her waking life: desperation, admiration, adoration, desire, frustration...all linked to this beautiful, tortured man.

A flush of warmth runs through her and suddenly those same fingers are passing over her skin, caressing her. Warm lips hungrily meet her own; a hand gently presses against the smooth mound of her breast, passes over her belly, and then drifts lower to cup her between her legs. The images bleed further and she can hear a baby crying; another pass of colors and the man's face before her is tired and drawn, but he looks at her with trust, hope, and an adoration that pierces awe and fear through her like a knife. They are both weakened but determined, and as he draws her into his arms she starts, her eyes focusing stupidly upon the light fixture above her on the ceiling.

She is awake now. Her sharp jerk has not woken the man sleeping deeply beside her, and so she very carefully extracts herself from between the sheets. She stumbles, regains her balance, and then pads half-dressed in a camisole and shorts to the window seat a few yards away. She shakily sits down, her entire body trembling and her forehead beaded with sweat. The dream had never gone that far before tonight - ordinarily the man's face only briefly swims before her, she grasps his hand, and then she awakens. Never before had so many colors, visualizations, and sensations pounded through her neurons, making the dark shadows of night invading the real world seem dull in comparison.

She knows this man, she's certain of this. Where from or how she knows him, she can't say, but as she glances dimly about the darkened room she feels strangely depressed, as though her subconscious knows that this is not where she should be.

Her conscience knows the same.

"Dana? Are you awake? What's wrong?"

She looks over from where she sits, seeing the shirtless man nearly old enough to be her father gazing at her inquisitively in the dark. He is awake—his eyes glimmer from the lamplight beaming in from the street through the window.

Dana crosses her arms over her chest, slowly stepping back towards the bed. She's cold. She feels very vulnerable and very, very young.

"Daniel..." she whispers softly. She keeps her head slightly bowed but she forces herself to look at him as he watches her, propped up on one arm in his bed. She falters as she steps closer to him, but she steels herself, stopping a few feet shy of him, her arms now resting at her sides.

"Daniel," she starts again, and her voice is stronger this time. A tide of determination and moral pride washes over her, and her next words are spoken with a conviction she didn't know she possessed, "I've been doing a lot of thinking lately..."


End file.
